


Dance in Your Head

by One_Day



Category: Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Dancing, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Heather thinks about insecurities for all of 3 seconds, I don't know how to dialogue so suggestions would be nice, Yes they live together in the countryside
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-31 02:39:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10889949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/One_Day/pseuds/One_Day
Summary: The morning is new and quiet until it isn't. Almost like waking from a dream.





	Dance in Your Head

The stairs creak quietly under live weight, sound ringing like a bell in the whispering morning house, soft like sleepy birds nestled in the eaves. It doesn’t even reach the walls before it’s eaten up by the space, but Heather hears, her ears responding to the noise faster than her mind can hope to keep up. It’s a now-obsolete skill from the past that’s become a part of her, that she hasn’t lost -- couldn’t even if she wanted to.

Steps wander in the direction of the kitchen, and sleep-rough humming drifts to the living room where she’s sprawled across a couch, basking in the warm pool of orange sun that slips in from the window. The morning is slow, and the rogue’s arms are yet too heavy and sluggish for rising to be anything but painful. Heather smells the strong, warm scent of coffee, anticipated by the preceding woosh of fire lighting, but after a moment, she hears a different sound. A new sound, like rustling cloth and steps and movement -- like wind through leaves, almost.

Curious, Heather shakes off the lead in her bones and pulls herself up, careful to make as little sound as possible. It’s not hard. She finds that her body still remembers how to move (swiftly, silently) even if her mind doesn’t. The thought is brief and passes as she makes her way from the living room to the kitchen, soundless like a ghost or a practiced hunter along the halls.

The sight that greets her is unexpected but not unwelcome, and she feels her heart stammer against her ribs painfully.

Nephenee is dancing. Nephenee. Carefree in the glow of morning like she’s in another world, eyelashes fluttering closed, radiant even in a simple blouse and long skirt.

She twirls and spins slowly, arms poised and hair fanning out like verdant, shimmering tail feathers behind her. The action is a bit gawky, as if her muscles are unused to the subtle motions, but for Heather the inelegance is no matter, and all the clumsiness is lost to the ambience. It’s the most graceful thing in all the world.

Standing there, watching, it’s as if the soft steps on the floorboards and distant chirping of birds coalesce into melodies and harmonies that roll about in the empty porcelain dishes like marbles and echo against the panes of glass in the windowsill. Before she knows it, there’s a sudden symphony playing in her head, each sweep of an arm thrumming low like a bow stroke, followed by the tinkling notes of a harp or piano, beats tapping and clicking as they bounce around the inside of her skull.

All of it is too much, too much, some bittersweet feeling beading up like drips from a sink head, falling faster and faster and faster to splash against the bottom and gather in a delicate crystal puddle. Heather wants to run and shout and laugh to the point that she could cry, can almost feel the salty water in her eyes and running down her chin, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t cry, either, just leans against the doorframe, dancing figures inside her head so enthralling and beautiful that they cover up the feeling of her heart cracking open in a way reminiscent of an old wooden trinket box with rusted hinges.

Maybe it’s for the best that her throat is too tight and mouth too dry to utter a sound. Words are flimsy things. They hang in the air like motes of dust in a sunlit room and mean just as little. Sometimes they’re just artfully crafted lies or frothy nonsense; rarely do they hold even a kernel of truth. Other times, they mean everything. 

So she doesn’t step forward, doesn’t try to change anything at all because doing so would be like throwing away a half painted canvas, living without ever knowing what kind of masterpiece could have been.

Nephenee’s legs twist, bend, pause, repeat, until separate limbs mean nothing and everything is one, no subjectivity to taint the gentleness. 

When the imaginary symphony crescendos to bursting (notes all scattering into dark corners, away from the brilliant rays of light), Heather forgets to breathe. It takes her a few moments to distinguish the burning in her lungs from the burning in her chest because with this distance, there’s so much to be aware of.

And then she has to inhale, has to shake off her stupor and move but even the softest puff of breath is too loud, too stark a contrast to the farm woman’s dancing, so the scene shatters into her hands, tiny shards cool and reflective like ice on her palms.

Heather curses to watch the kinetic motion stutter to a stop, to see arms fall back to sides, the final swish of a skirt as it stills against sun-tanned calves.

Nephenee turns then, acutely aware of Heather’s presence in the doorway and there’s the ghost of a gesture there, reaching to tug something low over her eyes, some fragment of wartime still ingrained in her memory. The woman seems startled for a fraction of a second to find only empty air in her fingers, but the moment passes and she tugs at her bangs instead, bashfulness pulling the corners of her mouth into a smile.

And even though they’re friends and companions and lovers, Heather still murmurs, “Sorry” because it feels like an intrusion, something only for the still objects on the counter or the drink bubbling in the pot, but not her. Never her. She has a habit of corrupting things, appropriating them on levels they don’t need to be. Part of her wishes she could find a way to hold on to something beautiful without changing it, keep it in a glass jar like fireflies for a while instead of violating it bit by bit.

It’s kind of a self deprecating thought, to think that she doesn’t deserve all the things she loves even after she’s pursued them for so long.

But then she looks up and Nephenee is smiling at her as if to say it’s okay, to say that she deserves the world, really does -- that there’s nothing wrong with being altered because it’s her own choice in the end, whether she notices or not.

When she speaks, what leaves her mouth is an affirmation of the fact.

“You don’t hafta apologize for just watchin’. I’m not so embarrassed ‘bout it, just…surprised.”

Something about the country girl pulls Heather out of her darker thoughts, and her usual confidence is back in a second.

“It’s just-- You’re real pretty, you know that? And you looked like you were enjoying yourself. I feel bad for making you stop.”

Nephenee shakes her head, the gesture reassuring, and extends a hand with a dramatic bow. “Wouldja like to dance with me a while, then?”

Heather huffs a soft laugh at the exaggerated flirtation, but wraps her fingers around Nephenee’s rough ones anyway, pulling her close by the waist.

“I think I might be a bad influence on you. Hide your wife, hide your kids, ‘cause here comes lady-killer Neph!” The rogue teases, and for now she doesn’t worry about corrupting, doesn’t have to because she’d love Nephenee regardless, loves her shy determination, the press of her as they sway together, her voice and her eyes and bright smile -- all of it before and now and forever.

Chin snug on a bare shoulder, Nephenee grins and responds, “Naw, you’re only a good thing. I don’t need to impress anyone but you, Heather.”

Her voice thrums soothingly in her throat, and the blonde woman can’t think of anything else but them, spinning together in the kitchen with motion in their heads and in their limbs, like tiny music box figures.

This is it, she realizes, this is the life she’s pined for and fought for, so long she barely remembers what came previously. Lazy mornings together, spent illuminated by a yellow glow, embracing languid and slow before a cup of coffee and the beginning of the day. The moment is caramel-sweet on Heather’s tongue, and when she dips Nephenee low, she feels light, so light that she could float or fly, and she lets out an airy laugh just to feel grounded.

She can see forever laid out ahead of her -- can see coming home to Nephenee working in the fields, making dinner side by side, smiling and laughing like this, and sometimes now, dancing. The thought never gets boring and if she could have this, she doesn’t mind growing old; welcomes it even, because some things are worth staying for.

So she welds the feeling away in her heart to focus on the now, the woman in her arms and their slow swaying, holding each other close like one being, all warmth and tenderness threatening to pour out of them, but somehow still contained except where their bodies meet.

Maybe the symphony never really shattered, just dimmed soft and quiet like drumming to await the next stanza. When the conductor raises his baton, all breath is bated, anticipating, hoping, until the instruments ease back in with a jovial tune. And to Heather, it’s not a concerto. It’s a story that goes on and on and on, up and down and around -- like spinning or reeling or leaping.

Like dancing.

**Author's Note:**

> Do I feel bad for clogging up the Heather/Nephenee tag? No, not really.


End file.
